When I was your age..

My April 1st started off normally enough. I woke up clamoring for the snoozes on my cell phone and two computer alarms.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Each an intense act of labor in its own right. I feverishly debated whether to wake up groggy and face fellow diners downstairs or sleep through math lecture (since the notes are online anyways). In between noisy birds chirping, my Vagelos roommate studying from the night before, and an encouraging text, I slipped into my oversized slippers and headed for the washroom. Another battle ending in near-defeat. Normal.

After math, I skedaddled over to 39th and Market for my checkup at Presbyterian Medical. The walk was hard, with the wind afflicted with bouts of sneezing and wheezing. However in the building’s pharmacy, while calling my primary for a referral, there was real sneezing and wheezing all around me. The order-taker, protected behind a sheet of glass, still strained her neck back to avoid imaginary booger particles.

I eavesdropped on some of the medication drop-offs. A woman needed help for an intracerebral hemorrhage after her second stroke. One wheelchaired man had gastrointestinal problems. Another, moaning and rasping in a corner, came with high blood pressure. Admittedly, I was more put-off than sympathetic towards the general crowd, but then I started noticing I was the only one under the age of 60. And non-black. Suffice it to say, I was feeling pretty insecure in my “I’m Black and I’m Proud” James Brown tribute shirt.

And then something happened. The man in the corner breaks the silence, "This pill got me another walk down the stairs - praise the Lord!" The crowd responds "Amen!" Another man dressed conspicuously in an all-black robe, necklace in a 7-inch cross, adds, "We, oh God, rest in you!" Another wave, "Amen!"

I talked with both, the first ex-Corporal McCullen, and the second Mr. Jordan. McCullen served in Korea, Jordan in Vietnam. Both were very chipper. McCullen, born in 1928, was a scouter during the war, but in one recon when he was late in reporting back to station, he found his entire platoon nearly wiped out. "I was in that platoon with a lot of friends, but I'm alright. 'Why me?' We have these special escapes for a reason. I'll just have to accept these things and use what the Lord has given me for His glory." Mr. Jordan's body was angular and jagged from years of hobbling on a weak leg, but his face was soft. He smiled with uneven whiskers adorning his chin and talked about my shirt. In the broken and truncated accent of the old and black, he talked about how God has given him strength during the years since his wife died. They had been together for 55 years. "Nothing is worth worrying too much over."

And which of you by worrying can add even one hour to his life?
-- Matthew 6:27

Recently, I've been struggling to be recaptivated by God, frustrated that my love and belief is never a constant. I pray for focus and diligence, trying to honor Him in my efforts in academics and growth in new relationships, but I fall short by misplacing much of my identity in them. Yet to see these Philadelphian natives trust in their shepherding God completely is a blessing.

On a day where we celebrate the lame pranks and sharp duplicity of our colleagues, I'm drawn to silence and humility. Just that morning it took a People's Republic-sized mental army to prep me up for my highly-exclusive, private Ivy League education. I can't continue upsetting Him and slandering what He's given me. What could I possibly say to those beaten-down old folk who can't WAIT to live for God? I simply will take their example.